Cape & Cowl
by Bekkoni
Summary: A series of slashy Superman/Batman one-shots. Lots of fluffiness, craziness, and possibly even some supervillain schemes.
1. Stitches

Clark stepped out of the teleporter beam and wished, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that Bruce would invest some of that fortune of his into decent lighting for the Cave. Even with his quite extraordinary sense, it still took his eyes a minute to adjust to the dimness. Finally, he picked out Bruce, perched on his chair in front of the Batcomputer, the cape and cowl discarded on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Clark asked, before he saw the blood sparkling on the floor.

"Don't give me that look; it's not that bad." Bruce pulled another stitch through his arm, and Clark tried not to give into the impulse to discover whether he was doing it with or without anesthesia. Instead, he just sat down in the chair next to Bruce's and tried, truly, to bite his tongue.

"Why are you stitching yourself up?" He was, as usual, unsuccessful. The cut ran from halfway down Bruce's forearm to the crook of his elbow. A knife wound, a deep one. Someone had gotten lucky and slipped in between two armor plates.

"Alfred's out. Would you prefer I let myself bleed?" Bruce snapped, trying to sound self-righteous, but it came across as tired and stressed.

"I'd prefer it if you had no need to get stitched up." Clark x-rayed him and felt mildly better that the knife hadn't gotten anywhere close to the bone.

Bruce sighed, right on cue (they'd had this conversation time and again, though neither put a stop to it). "I don't get all mothery with you when Luthor gives you kryptonite poisoning."

"I'm not mothering. I'm allowed to care about you. That's kind of the point of a relationship." He reached over and took the curved needle out of Bruce's hand. The last of the stitches were done fast enough that Bruce wouldn't feel much. This would leave a scar, albeit a thin one. Clark focused on tying off the thread so he could stop calculating these things. The blood on the floor had dried, so instead he concentrated on the fresh blood staining Bruce's skin.

"I really hate it when you do that," Bruce said.

"Do what?"

"Wrinkle you eyebrows like that. You're imaging all the horrible ways I could die, and it dries me nuts." Bruce pulled his hand back and wrapped a bandage around the fresh stitches. He did it quickly and efficiently, barely even looking at what he was doing.

"I just don't like seeing you hurt." Clark did not mention that he had, indeed, been imagining what new hell it would be to have to go to Bruce's funeral. "I—"

Bruce leaned forward and kissed him, cutting off whatever he was going to say. Clark's train of thought departed without him.

"I'm exhausted," Bruce said, when he pulled away, "and I don't want to have a conversation about morality right now. I want to get some Italian food delivered, have a hot shower, and then get into bed with you. Okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Clark replied, and that was all the coaxing he needed to abandon their previous conversation.


	2. Gossip

A/N: Yeah, I stole a line from Torchwood. So sue me (though really, please don't) ;)

"So," Wally asked, "do they really think they're being so sneaky?"

"I guess so." Diana sipped her iced mocha and watched the people in question, who were currently sitting across from them in the cafeteria and having a _totally_ non-romantic lunch together. "For being the World's Greatest Detective, Bruce sure can't hide it when he likes someone."

"You should know," Shayera said, though kindly. "It's hubris, I bet. He thinks we're all too stupid to notice. As for Clark—well, Clark always has been a romantic fool."

The three of them sat and watched as Clark touched Bruce's hand, relaying some story or other, and then tried to cover it up with nonchalance. Bruce had on what might have been a smile, if he didn't have a policy against acting human on the Watchtower.

"How did you figure it out?" Wally asked, while shoving half of a hamburger in his mouth. It took Shayera and Diana a minute to understand him through the sheer amount of food squashed into his mouth.

"They started showing up for meeting _exactly_ five minutes apart, like they were coordinating it," Shayera said. "And the fact that Clark was always almost-blushing afterward. And shooting Bruce meaningful glances. Really, the boys aren't that subtle."

"There's just something about them," Diana added. "They linger too long on each other. What about you, Wally? How did you figure it out?"

"It was pretty easy, actually." Wally shrugged and finished off his second glass of Coke before continuing. "I was bored on monitor duty one day, and going through some security tape footage, and I started noticing these little chunks of time where the footage had been messed with. The timestamps had been faked. And it always happened right after the two of them had walked into an otherwise empty room together. So obviously they were doing _something_ in there, and Bats was going back and erasing the footage."

"Wait," Shayera said. "When you get bored, you're smart enough to catch Bruce's tricks?"

Waly looked at her. "Scary, ain't it?"

"Hey." Green Lantern appeared behind Shayera to plunk his tray down next to hers. He almost fell into the chair—he looked exhausted. "I've had a day. Did you know that there's a type of space cat that eats entire ecosystems? Because I do now. And the things are damn hard to catch; it took three of us just to pen it in. But what's up with you?"

Shayera scooted over to give him room. "We were discussing Clark and Bruce."

"How they're totally together?"

"Is there anyone who doesn't know?" Shayera asked.

"I heard Supergirl and Batgirl taking bets about they when they would finally own up to it. Booster Gold and Blue Beetle definitely know too—and if _they_ know, then everyone does." GL glared at Wally, who had been about to steal one of his potato chips.

"Nightwing doesn't know." Wally slunk back into his own seat. "Though I think he's willfully ignoring the signs. It'd be pretty weird to have your surrogate father be in a relationship with Superman. Sort of like if your mom dated the Easter Bunny. I think Robin's in the dark too. Along with Alfred and the Kents—but who really wants their parents to know who they're dating?"

"People who aren't teenagers sneaking out their windows in the middle of the night?" Shayera said, pointedly.

"Bruce still sneaks out the bedroom window sometimes. Though mostly to avoid date rather than to go on them." Diana had more than a hint of bitterness there.

"Oh, come on," Shayera said. "You're over him, aren't you? Last I heard, you had some blond Air Force hottie on your arm."

"Steve's wonderful." Diana sighed happily now. "It is so, so nice not having to play guessing games to figure out what my boyfriend is thinking. And to have real dates , with dinner and everything, that don't get interrupted by Mr. Polka Dot taking over a ballpoint pen factory. But I'd be lying if I said that there isn't something deeply appealing about the dark and mysterious type."

"Apparently Bruce's type is brunettes," John observed, "of any variety."

"I think Bruce would screw anything that's beautiful enough," Shayera said, with more than a little poke at Diana.

"They're not going to keep this up forever," Wally said, and John noticed that the kid had somehow gotten a handful of his chips. "I'll bet you guys twenty bucks that they screw up and kiss at the New Year's party."

"I'll match you that twenty that they break up before the party." Shayera tossed her used napkin onto her tray. "There's no way Bruce is going to that party, and certainly no way he's going to get tipsy enough to let Clark kiss him."

"Bet you that Clark will prod him into coming home to Kansas within the month, and then they'll tell us because there just won't be a point to keeping it a secret." Diana cast an eye back over to Clark and Bruce—currently Bruce was leaning across the table towards Clark, and Clark was trying to get him to try the cafeteria's broccoli salad.

John chuckled at them. "You're honestly trying to predict Clark and Bruce. Okay—I bet they'll keep this up until some supervillain decides to make a grand plan around it, and then the front page of the Daily Planet will have a headline like 'Superhero Romance!' splashed across the front page."

"So," Wally said, "Winner gets the pot?"

****#****

Clark was watching Bruce sketch plans for a new model of Javelin with one hand while he ate with the other. The man was a master of concentration and, just to see if he could break it, Clark traced his toes up Bruce's ankle. Bruce looked up. "You know, B, we can't hide this forever. Sooner or later they're going to find out."

"You just want an excuse to act all relationship-y in public," Bruce replied, and firmly tucked his foot over his opposite knee.

"We could go to the New Year's party together."

"Absolutely not."

"You could come home to Kansas with me. Mom can tell there's someone new in my life, and she's like a bloodhound at this."

"Oh _hell_ no. And I'm not exactly someone 'new' in your life. We've known each other for what, nine or ten years?" Bruce sighed at the silliness of the Kents and went back to his sketching. "And Kansas has all that flat corn, nothing on the horizon. Gives me vertigo."

Clark tried to remind himself of the virtue of patience. "You know what I mean, _darling. _Come on, Bruce, do you really think we can keep this up forever? They're going to figure it out, and I know you just hate it when you're not the one to give away some bit of information."

Bruce glared at the pet name. "I'd rather not have people poking around in our business. Too many social obligations, when other people know about your relationship."

"God forbid we have social obligations," Clark said, "Especially not with our friends. Honestly, heaven forbid."

Bruce looked over to the table where Diana, John, Wally and Shayera were sitting, all obliviously consuming their lunches. "I don't know why you're so concerned with this. There's no way they'd ever put it together."


	3. Birthday

~Birthday~

Clark was never one to lose a story. He'd worked for six months on a piece about a Colombian drug ring once, persevering even though three of his main sources had turned tail and clammed up. After Lois, he was probably the next best researcher at the _Planet_. Which was why he was going to the best source of all for his hardest question.

"Alfred," he said, sitting at the counter in Wayne Manor's kitchen with a stack of cookies by his elbow, "what does Bruce want for his birthday?"

"Heaven only knows, Mister Kent." The butler was standing by the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled so good that it ought to be served on Olympus. "My gift to him every year is that I continue to serve him for another year with only mildly disapproving looks, rather than retiring to a nice English beach where I can spend the rest of my days with a stack of novels."

Clark rested his head on his hands, watching Alfred cook. "Really? No ideas for me at all?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. The last time I knew what would please Master Bruce, he was seven and all it took to get him to cartwheel through the room was a Grey Ghost action figure."

Clark needed a minute to process that image. Unfortunately, it still didn't give him any ideas. "Can I try out a few ideas on you, then?"

"Certainly." While Alfred was chopping carrots, Clark pulled a notebook out from his bag. He'd been thinking this over for a week and a half, ever since he had bribed Robin to find out when Bruce's birthday actually was. Apparently, birthdays were one of the things that boyfriends were not allowed to know in Bruce's world.

Okay." Clark flipped the notebook open to the first page. Half the items on his list had already been crossed off, having been crossed off because they were too ridiculous, not "Bruce" enough, too generic, or just plain wrong. "What about a big party, with all of the Justice League? The founding members, at least."

"Lots of people? For Master Bruce?"

Clark sighed. "You're right. He'd be glaring at me all night long. What about a nice bathrobe? He is, after all, a rich guy who doesn't own one. That's kind of backwards."

"Perhaps it is. But for five minute cold showers, I don't think he believes a bathrobe is worth it. Maybe you should think less about things Master Bruce wants—because we are both well aware that those things are few and far between—and more about things that are important to the two of you. What did you do for your first date? Master Thomas always recreated his and Missus Wayne's first date for their anniversary."

Clark grimaced involuntarily. "It was bad tomato soup in the Watchtower cafeteria. And the only way I could get Bruce to stop working for half an hour was because we'd just gotten back from a mission where he broke his ankle and got a mild concussion."

"Ah," Alfred said, while he finished stirring the soup. "Perhaps that isn't something one would want to repeat."

"True." Clark reexamined his list, and could not find one solitary thing that would actually please Bruce. "Okay. Let me think here. I suppose he'd be happy if I got him, like, a stack of batarangs or something, but I'd like it to be something actually fun. Say what _does_ Bruce do on his days off? Maybe that would give me an idea."

"Days off?" Alfred turned around, wiping off his spoon on his apron, with a look of confusion on his face. "Master Bruce doesn't _have_ days off, unless I suppose he's forced to by an injury."

"No…" Clark pulled out his phone to check the Watchtower's member roster. "He takes a day off every six months. Like clockwork. Look, he had one last Wednesday."

"_I _had a day off last Wednesday." Alfred went to the calendar hanging on the wall (_Scenes of the English Countryside_, as Clark noticed with a smile) and flipped back six months. "And six months ago. Dick and Tim were away last Wednesday and then as well."

Clark put down his notebook. "So Bruce schedules days off and then takes them when no one else is home? What could he be doing?"

Before they had the chance to try and puzzle out this mystery, Bruce came jogging into the kitchen looking like he'd just run a 10k. He ignored both of them and went straight to the stove, serving himself up a heaping bowl of soup with no more of a greeting than "Mmm. Food."

He plunked himself down on the seat next to Clark (who quickly shoved the notebook away) and hunkered down over his bowl like he hadn't eaten in a week. After he'd scraped it clean, in a surprisingly short amount of time no less, he asked, "What are _you _doing here?"

"Waiting for you," Clark answered smoothly.

Bruce scanned them both with a darkly examining glare, one eyebrow piqued with suspicion. But eventually he apparently decided that food was better right now than getting to the bottom of whatever was going on, and he scraped his bowl clean with the side of his spoon. He even gazed longingly at the pot like he wanted another bowl, but then sighed and turned around to be social. "So why exactly were you looking for me? Has Wally broken something on the Watchtower again? Did we finally get the evidence from the Blackgate breakout to analyze?"

"No," Clark said, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes or sigh in exasperation. "I just like seeing you."

Bruce stood up to drop his bowl into the sink. "I thought we had an agreement that you weren't going to give into sentimentality in this thing."

"Saying that I like seeing you isn't being overly sentimental in _our relationship_." Clark turned to Alfred for support. "C'mon, Alfred, back me up here."

"My apologies, Mister Kent, but my own agreement with Master Bruce is that I not comment upon his romantic affairs to his face," Alfred said, with a knowing wink, while he cleaned off his cutting board.

"And I'd appreciate it if you stuck to it," Bruce muttered, while stamping around the kitchen pretending to actually be busy. "Seriously, Clark, what do you want?"

Clark hesitated for a minute, but then decided that there was no better time than the present. Bruce, not being one to ever reveal _anything_ personal about himself, would probably just shut him down or glare at him without giving him any answers at all if he was in a bad mood. Right now, Clark couldn't actually figure out if Bruce was grouchy or just tired, but he went for it anyways. "I had a question for you, actually. What is it you do on your off days?"

Bruce, for once was startled. He blinked, and then recovered. "Huh?"

"Seriously. What do you do on your days off? I'm curious." Clark fixed him with a long, interested stare that Bruce couldn't wriggle out of it.

Weirdly enough, Bruce glanced at Alfred, like a kid who was hiding a broken vase under his bed. Alfred caught the look and just appeared confused. Clark saw him wrinkle his brow, like he was trying to figure out what on earth might actually _embarrass_ Bruce. Clark too was pulling a blank.

Finally, Bruce's eyes went to his feet. "Nothing important."

"Oh, come on now." Clark leaned forward. This was now far more interesting than just finding birthday gift ideas. "Do tell us this big secret."

"It's not a secret," Bruce mumbled, while searching for an escape. "It just doesn't matter."

"Then who cares if you tell us?" Clark asked, and Bruce backed against the wall like a trapped animal. "Honestly."

"I don't see why it's so important to you. I don't interrogate you on what you do on your days off. I don't care." Bruce turned away to get a cup of water.

"I'm interested in you." Clark tried very, very hard not to look too overly eager. It was apparent from the way that Alfred was obsessively polishing the same glass that he was trying to be disinterested as well. "And for your information, on my day off I usually go to the library, fly out to the moon to read for awhile, and then get Chinese food before taking a long shower. There. Now you don't have to interrogate me."

Bruce drank his water to avoid having to answer or respond at all.

Clark moved so he was in front of the door. "Now you have to tell me, so we'll be even. It can't be that bad."

"I just—" Bruce began, and then snapped his mouth shut again just as quickly.

"What was that?" Clark asked,

Bruce threw his hands in the air, nearly flinging his glass into the wall. "Fine, okay? Fine! I just stay home and watch old musicals and eat pizza and chocolate ice cream. There! Are you happy?"

Alfred looked equal parts scandalized and hurt. "Pizza, Master Bruce? From a…_fast food pizzeria_?" He said it with such disdain that Clark understood why Bruce didn't want his surrogate father to know there were times he chose junk food over Alfred's cooking.

"Old musicals?" Clark asked. "Really?"

Bruce was doing everything he could not to turn red, but it wasn't working. Clark would never dare tell him this, but when he was truly embarrassed he blushed up to his ears. "I like them, okay? I'm human, I have my vices."

"_Musicals_?" Clark said again. "I wouldn't exactly call that a vice. Although for _you_…"

"Oh, shut up Kent." Bruce managed to recover some of his Batman-essence and ducked out the door around Clark, although not before looking guiltily once more at Alfred. "I have work to do."

"Pizza!" Alfred muttered, after his ward had left. "After all the work I do to make bloody wheatgrass drinks every morning and snacks all hours of the day and night. Pizza!"

Clark decided he'd best make his escape before he found out what happened when Alfred was actually angry (an occurrence he had been fortunate enough to never encounter before). But at least he now had an idea for Bruce's birthday.

Bruce came upstairs after a day of working down in the Cave (repairing the Batmobile, which had been clogged with mud after an incident with Clayface; checking on the Arkham security cameras; and running over the evidence for a murder case that he just couldn't crack yet) to find Clark standing in the kitchen, a match in hand. His suspicions naturally arose. "What are you doing, trying to burn the house down?"

"No…" Clark said, and lit the match. Bruce followed the light down to a cake sitting on the counter, and groaned. "Have you forgotten what day it is?"

"I swear, Clark, if everyone is hiding in the parlor or something, they will never find your body."

Clark smiled, and blew out the match. "Nope. It's just us."

Bruce poked his head into the hallway and listened carefully, just to make sure Clark was being truthful. He didn't even hear Tim and Dick moving around in their rooms, or Alfred walking about upstairs. Certainly if Clark had decided to torture him with a party, he would've invited Wally, and Wally wouldn't have been able to keep his mouth shut for very long. "Then what's going on here?"

"Well," Clark said, holding up two DVD cases, "I thought we'd eat pizza and cake and then watch a couple of movies. Say, _Easter Parade_ and _Doll Face_? You like those ones, right?"

"How did you know?" he was now genuinely curious.

Clark shrugged, like it was really no bother. "I looked at all of your discs for wear. These ones had the most."

"That must have taken you awhile."

"A couple of hours." Clark pointed to the cake, which he had strategically adorned with slightly fewer candles than was actually called for. "Come on. Aren't you going to slice it? It's chocolate."

Bruce picked up the knife, cut two thick slices from the cake, and gave the first one to Clark. "You put an awful lot of planning into this."

Clark peered at him and grinned. "Is that an actual Bruce Wayne smile I see?"

"I was just thinking about how I'm going to have to top this for your birthday."

"Aw," Clark said, and picked up the first DVD case. "Now come on, you're going to tell me what you see in these things."


End file.
